The Fall of A Literary God And Rewritten Memories

Metro
December 2008
Chicago, Illinois

I am one of the masses of happy, sweaty, singing bodies taking in Amanda Palmer’s first solo tour to support the release of Who Killed Amanda Palmer? My bestie and concert twin flame, Joe, took it all in next to me.

At some point early in the show, I felt a presence before I turned around to confirm their identity. Prolific author and Palmer collaborator (I believe their romantic relationship hadn’t been announced at this point), Neil Gaiman, was stationed behind me. I tried not to let the sudden materialization of one of my favorite writers distract me from the show before me, but I wasn’t entirely successful.

Manfred Werner - Tsui, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

As the show concluded with a Living On Prayer and Leeds United encore, we shuffled out with the still-buzzing crowd. In the chilly city street, I realized I had exited with more than I had arrived when I discovered a backstage pass affixed to the back of my skirt.

Joe and I mused about how on earth the pass could have found its way to my derriere and attempted to determine how one might access said backstage area. We hemmed and hawed if it was meant for us or a mistake. Was it him? We bemoaned our early day jobs that began in too few hours and a bus that would stop running soon. Less than a year out of college and on the verge of a recession, our bank accounts were never flush enough to contemplate a cab and Uber was not yet a thing.

Our responsible sides won out, and we boarded one of the final buses back to Andersonville. We lamented about what could have been on the ride home and hoped that, as occasional music journalists, another opportunity might present itself in the future.

Photo by Mario Scheibl on Unsplash

Sometimes a backstage pass is just a backstage pass. But sometimes it could be the start of something far more.

Last week Vulture/NY Mag released a scathing report documenting a litany of abuses Gaiman is accused of inflicting on young fans, nannies, and other women in his and Palmer’s orbit. It has put that relatively innocent and ultimately uneventful Metro memory in a much different bucket. While certainly not a #MeToo, it has been reframed under…what if?

My path crossed closely with Gaiman’s in the next decade-and-a-half at a handful of Palmer’s shows. Multiple times during the various events surrounding her career-shifting TED Talk experience in 2013 in Long Beach, California - where I was living at the time — I found myself shoulder-to-shoulder with Neil in intimate crowds. Additional events in San Diego and LA found me in close proximity with the duo in fleeting moments during or after performances. Until initial reports last year and this month’s more detailed reporting, those interactions were remembered fondly and as friendly moments with artists I admired.

There is no evidence they were anything more than that. But it doesn’t mean those memories aren’t now tainted. I now catch their respective books and albums on my shelves and wince when the awful descriptions of abuse of power and lack of boundaries replay in my head. Gaiman’s purported ritualistic assaults and Palmer’s seemingly tacit supply of victims deeply shift the feminist, liberal, bohemian internet folk hero persona each had crafted in their own way.

As expected, Gaiman has offered a statement refuting Lila Shapiro’s reporting. Palmer has requested privacy as divorce proceedings are ongoing. Pop culture critic Glen Weldon tried to tackle the ongoing conversation that occurs when any beloved creator falls from grace: how and if to separate the art from the artist. None of it feels absolving or comforting.